Frost Wolf (10 page)

THE SARK AND GWYNNETH WERE pressing on — the Masked Owl flying overhead as the wolf below traveled in an erratic yet vaguely northwesterly direction to follow the spoor track.

They were just to the south of MacDonegal territory and had found ample signs left by the Skaars dancers. Although it had turned cold once again after that one sunny day, there had not been any more blizzards. The distinctive circles left by dancing paws were clearly visible. Many of the circles bore the unique scent of dream marks, which the Sark found very disturbing. But she did not bother to explain the significance of this to Gwynneth. Some of these dream marks bore the odor of the spoor they were tracking. Others did not. This led the Sark to believe that not all the dancers were led by the wolf in
the helmet and visor. Most disturbing of all, however, was that many of the circles had the scent of a wolf about to die. This was a dance that would lead wolves to their ends.

They were drawing near the Outermost now. In the distance, the Sark and Gwynneth could see on the horizon the faint scrawl of the ice cliffs that separated the Beyond from the Outermost. The wind had just shifted and was spilling down over the jagged ridge. The breeze was tinged with a rancid odor that assaulted the Sark’s nose and set her eye spinning. Buried in the snow was not a dead wolf but the scat of a live wolf who had devoured its own kind!

The sky that had briefly arched like a limitless blue dome now turned woolly with thick clouds that pressed down upon the Beyond. The clouds seemed almost to have weight, crushing down like a vise upon them, as if to obliterate any hope of escape from the destiny that awaited them. Along the way, they had encountered a few wolves, but they were alarmed to learn that they were often the last remnants of their packs. They had encountered one wolf from the MacAngus clan who informed them that the chieftain had died.

“The chieftain is dead?” The Sark was aghast at this news.

“Yes,” Aldwyn MacAngus replied. “The Stone Pack is finished, and I heard tell that the River Pack of the MacDuncan clan is half gone. Rumor has it that the last two of the Stone Pack killed each other in a fight over a snow hare.”

Shortly after that, they met up with a MacDuff wolf.

“My mate died, so did our pups. I couldn’t take it anymore. What was the use of sticking around when I’ve lost my family?”

“How many in all do you think have died?” the Sark asked.

“Oh, no telling. I have heard rumors that Creakle, our gnaw wolf, still lives,” the MacDuff wolf answered. He was a silver wolf and so ragged it was almost impossible to determine his age, but he seemed to have a feisty spirit. “I’d say the strongest clan right now is possibly the MacNamaras. They are close to the sea, you know. ’Tis said those wolves know how to fish, and so far the sea ain’t frozen. So some wolves might have headed north and east to their territory. But I would think that we’re half gone right now. I considered going that way, but I heard the Blood Watch needs some help. The thought of
outclanners filling up the Beyond with their kind — not a pleasant one. And you know they are just about mean enough to survive. Don’t let anybody tell you life is fair.”

After this depressing encounter, the Sark and Gwynneth continued. The weather worsened, if that was possible, and although they had been heading in vaguely the same direction, they soon lost sight of the lone wolf.

It was as bitter as in the darkest days of the hunger moons. “It’s cold enough to freeze a wolf’s shadow,” the Sark huffed, enveloping her own head in a huge cloud of breath fog. She continued to grumble as they tore apart a snow hare that Gwynneth had spotted. They licked up every bit of its warm blood and moved on.

They were now entering one of the loneliest reaches of the Beyond. But the Sark seemed to be onto something. Gwynneth sensed that the spoor had become stronger. How often she had wished that she had been blessed with the Sark’s keen sense of smell, but owls’ perception of scent was decidedly dull. It was their ears and their eyes that guided them. And right now, slipping through the fissures of the wind, Gwynneth detected a
tiny creaking sound ahead. It sounded like a tree groaning in the wind, but there were no trees in this stretch of land. The Sark was quickening her pace on the ground below Gwynneth and appeared to be tracking toward the sound source as well.

Gwynneth began tipping her head one way, then the other, while contracting the muscles around her facial disk to scoop up sound. It was a black night with no moon, no stars. Perhaps if there had been, Gwynneth would have seen it sooner. But on the blackest of nights the blackest of trees melted into the dark void of the Beyond. The Sark, guided only by sporadic scent clues, felt like the blind wolf Beezar. Beezar was a small constellation that appeared during the spring moons. Under a starry ceiling, the blind wolf stumbled west, his front paw always raised as if fearing that with his next step he might fall off the edge of the sky. But the scent guiding the Sark was growing stronger.

“It’s straight ahead, ma’am! Straight ahead!”

And then the Sark saw it, too. An Obea tree — as such trees were called by the wolves. And she knew instantly that this was where the helmet of Gwyndor, father of Gwynneth and best friend of the Sark, would be found.

It might seem odd in a sparsely wooded country that it was a tree with which the Skaars dancing had begun. But the Sark was almost sure it was so. The Obea tree, of which there were very few, was so named because it was said that only one in a thousand of its seeds ever sprouted. And then it took hundreds of years for it to grow. So it was fitting to name the trees after Obeas, the barren she-wolves charged with the task of taking
malcadhs
from their mothers and leaving them to die. Some also called these trees witch’s trees for their black spectral branches that clawed darkly at the sky. The
skreeleens
told howling tales of witches when they read the lightning, the
ceilidh fyre
, that scratched the sky during summer thunderstorms. Obea trees were to be avoided, for it was rumored that even to be near them would cause barrenness. Such were the superstitions of the wolves.

“I know about Obea trees,” Gwynneth protested. “But, ma’am, it makes no sense that a wolf would make a hero mark at a tree that wolves feel is cursed.”

“No, it doesn’t make much sense. However, I don’t believe for one minute that this was the place your father died. There is a scent missing. But the helmet rested here, among these roots.”

“Then what is this place?”

“It’s a place where someone has been hiding the helmet.” The Sark paused. “And it’s a wonderful hiding place. No one wants to come near the tree for fear of being cursed by barrenness. And you see these roots? They’re called buttress roots,” the Sark said in an oddly distracted voice.

“What?” Gwynneth had been lost in a maze of questions as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing. She had not paid attention to the tree roots, which she now realized were rather unusual for this region.

“Buttress roots. They’re like walls in a cave. They flare up to help support the tree because the ground is too hard here for roots to dig in. And the roots provide a perfect hideaway for your father’s helmet. My goodness gracious!” she exclaimed. “Look at this!”

“What?”

“A cache! A rather nice cache — frozen pretty solid. A baby weasel, also a stoat. And, oh my goodness, some ptarmigan eggs! Now, tell me that a decent bird like a ptarmigan is not going to have tastier eggs than an odious tern! We’ve got ourselves a little feast here, my dear.” The Sark paused and looked up. “But we need patience just as much as we need food.”

“Patience for what, ma’am?”

The Sark’s eyes narrowed. “I feel it in my marrow that if we stay here long enough, we shall meet the wolf who took your father’s helmet and mask. This is his hiding place. All we need to do is lie in wait.”

Gwynneth did not say anything for a long time. Then she turned to the Sark. “Ma’am, if my father didn’t die here, where do you think he breathed his last?” Finding the helmet and visor was important to Gwynneth, but she wanted to know where Gwyndor died almost as much. She hoped it was a lovely spot.

The Sark spoke softly now, almost gently. “I think he died in a patch of rabbit-ear moss.”

“But how — how would you know that? You wouldn’t just say something to make me feel better, would you?”

The Sark’s hackles rose. Gwynneth realized almost immediately that she had said the wrong thing.

“What kind of wolf do you think I am?”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“When you brought me the voles wrapped in moss, it was the scent of the moss that triggered my memory.”

“Yes. So?”

“There was blood on that moss — vole blood. And now it begins to make sense. There were traces of the scent of blood and rabbit-ear moss on that helmet. Your
father died of a wound to his head. I assure you his head bled onto a bed of rabbit-ear moss. That’s where he took his last breath and where some wolf decided to honor him.”

The Sark got up now and pressed her nose to a buttress root, inhaling deeply. Then she took a step back and sniffed the ground.

“You think so, ma’am? You really do?”

“I do, Gwynneth,” the Sark replied solemnly. She looked straight into the owl’s dark eyes while her own spinning eye grew very still.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Don’t thank me, thank that scroom.”

Gwynneth knew that the Sark, who prided herself on logic and disdained anything smacking of the supernatural, must be pained to give credit to a scroom.

The two settled into a snug little space created by the soaring buttress roots. Although Gwynneth could not help but think it would have been much cozier had it been lined with rabbit-ear moss. It was the softest moss and was often used in owl hollows, particularly when chicks hatched out. Meanwhile, the Sark was thinking how clever it was of a wolf to take the helmet and visor to an Obea tree, certain to be avoided by any other wolves.
It was a perfect place to hide a disguise used for what she was beginning to believe was a diabolical dance, a dance of submission and death. It was not a warrior who led these dances, nor was it evil incarnate — just a weak and stupid wolf.
No gall grot
, thought the Sark. Wasn’t that the owl word for “raw courage”?

Toward midnight, the tree began to shake and shudder as a slashing rain pelted the branches. Ice driven by screeching wind slanted across the night. “Sounds like a pack of foaming-mouth creatures out there,” the Sark commented.

It became even colder. The two animals huddled closer to each other and tried to conjure up memories of the warm snow hare blood that had coursed down their throats the day before. The meat was not the tenderest, but became more succulent in their memories.

“What’s the best meat you ever ate?” Gwynneth asked.

The Sark answered immediately. “Spring grass–fed caribou. If you get them during the Moon of New Antlers, there is just nothing better. You’ve never tasted anything like it.”

“And I don’t suppose I will. They’re a little out of my size range.”

“Spring is the only time I run with a
byrrgis
, really.”

“I never knew you went out with a
byrrgis
at all.”

“Don’t be shocked. I’m not totally antisocial.”

“What position do you run?”

“Something middling — a packer, most often a tight end packer. Nothing spectacular like an outflanker. But when I have a yearning for caribou, I join up.”

“What’s your favorite food after spring grass–fed caribou?”

“Marmot.”

“Marmot — really?”

“I know, most wolves find it too gamey. It’s an acquired taste. What about you? What do you like?”

“Red squirrel — very nutty with a hint of winter grass. You can get them during the Caribou Moon.” Gwynneth paused. “Funny, isn’t it, how just talking about food sort of feeds you twice?”

“Indeed! There must be a scientific explanation for it,” the Sark replied.

“I think it’s just imagination. Imagination can feed you, keep you alive.”